Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.

Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
7
S ECRETS
WE ALL have secrets.
Like not liking your best friend that much. But you
dont dare tell her because she holds reputations in her
hand like eggshell, and if she moves just a nger youre
broken, over.
Like keeping your mouth closed when you swig your
Bacardi Breezer so she thinks youre as drunk as she is. But
when shes not looking you pour half the bottle behind the
wall.
The usual stuff.
Even my little brother has secrets. Like he thinks no
one knows it was him who drew the solar system on the
kitchen ceiling. I knew. But I said nothing. Because those
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
kinds of secrets dont matter. Not really. Theyre eeting,
like insects, mayies. Alive for just a day.
But some secrets arent mayies. Theyre monstrous
things: skeletons locked in cupboards; notes slipped
through the cracks in oorboards and between the pages of
books. And, though the ink fades and the paper foxes, the
words are still there. Waiting to be found. Or to nd us.
If I had known who he was who I was would it have
changed anything? Or would I still have felt that weight on
my chest, pushing the air out of my lungs so that, when
I saw him, even that rst time, I struggled to catch my
breath? Would I still have lost hours, nights, thinking about
his lips, his slow, lazy smile? And would I still have fallen in
love, if I had known?
Maybe. Maybe not. But thats it: I didnt know. Because
it was Mums secret. Hets secret. And, like all skeletons, it
came out of the closet. And it found me.
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
9
BI L L I E
THE KEY arrived three days after Luka left. Mum said
it was serendipity. I didnt believe in that kind of stuff, just
thought it was a nice word, like egg, or pink. Back then,
anyway. But maybe it was serendipity, fate, whatever, be-
cause Mum was already kind of losing it. Not big-men-in-
white-coats style. Not that time. Just the little things. Like
I found her in the kitchen with one of his T-shirts, just
standing there, snifng it. And when I called her Mother
as a joke she slammed a glass of Coke down so hard it shat-
tered; shards of transparency scattering across the oor, a
slop of soda soaking into a dishcloth.
It wasnt like he was gone for ever Luka, I mean. He
was in Germany with some band for three months guitarist
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
10
for a kid half his age and twice his talent, he said. But that
wasnt true and he knew it. Luka was good. Which was why
he was always getting gigs. Always leaving. He always came
back, though. But that wasnt enough for Mum. She said she
was tired of it, tired of waiting. She said if he went this time
then we might not be here when he knocked on the door
come Easter. Luka laughed and said he wouldnt knock;
he had a key. He kissed the top of her head and wiped her
angry tears with his string- hardened ngers. But she pushed
him away and said this time she meant it.
None of us believed her. I mean, hes Finns dad. She
couldnt just disappear, hide. But then the envelope arrived
and everything changed.
Mum is out with Finn getting milk and bread and fresh air,
or something like it. I say its too cold, that I dont like fresh
air, and I stay in the at upstairs with the curtains closed
and an old Mickey Mouse T-shirt on, and wrap myself
up in my duvet and the white-smile world of Saturday-
morning telly.
And Im lying on the sofa watching Tom pot Jerry like
hes a snooker ball when I hear the clatter of the letterbox in
the shared hallway below, and the post hitting the piles of
pizza delivery leaets, sending them uttering further across
the oor. And I cant remember why, but I get up. Maybe I
think its a postcard from my best friend Cass in the Domin-
ican Republic with her dad and the Step monster, getting a
tan and another hickey from a boy shell claim is the love of
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
11
her life then wont remember when she gets back.
But, when I see it, I know it isnt from Cass. The
postmark isnt foreign, but it isnt from round here either.
Its a Jiffy envelope, the kind you put fragile stuff in, impor-
tant stuff; not one of Casss say-nothing notes, with hearts
dotting her is and SWALK on the back. And the writing isnt
Biro or pink gel pen; its black ink, with loops in the ls so
that Billie looks alive. But the name is only half me. Be-
cause then the loops spell out Trevelyan, which is Mums
old surname, before she changed it changed us to
Paradise, a word Mum picked up from a sign above a shop
door on Portobello. Kept it the way you keep a glass marble.
Because she liked the way it felt in her mouth. Because she
thought a name could make it happen, make it real.
I feel this surge of fear inside me. No, not fear exactly,
thrill. The kind you get on a rollercoaster. Or when some-
one double-dares you to down a shot. Bad and good all
wrapped up in one sickening whirl. And suddenly Im small
and scared, standing in my T-shirt and socks on the bare
concrete, and I have to look around to check if anyone has
seen me, if Mrs Hooton from Flat B is coming out in her
slippers and threadbare dressing-gown to catch me with
this What? This thing in my hand. But Im alone, and I
shiver, the January air an icy hiss through the gaps around
the door, stippling my thighs and arms with goosepimples.
And I run back up the stairs and slam the door and pull the
duvet around me again, still holding the envelope, hot in
my hand like Frodos ring.
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
12
I think even then I knew it. That it wasnt just a package.
It was a talisman, a magic amulet to change my world.
I duck my head under the cover and roll onto my side,
the light from the telly shining through the faded polyester
owers, so that I can open the envelope and wait for the
power to seep out and transform my life.
And it almost does.
Its a key. Not like ours. Not a shiny Chubb that locks
out Mrs Hooton and the rest of the world. Locks us in. But
the old kind. Heavy, blackened iron. The kind you get in
fairy tales that opens up a haunted mansion in the woods,
or a box of cursed treasure, or the Ark of the Covenant.
And when I read the letter, with it pressing its cold metal-
lic print into my palm, it feels electric. Because it is a fairy
tale. Only its real. And its about me.
The story is simple, short. Typed in sharp Times New
Roman on a single page. A woman has died. Eleanor
Trevelyan. My grandmother. She has died and left me
a house. Cliff House. In Seaton. In Cornwall.
I have inherited a house. The one Mum grew up in,
and left sixteen years ago, when I was already inside her.
Because I was already inside her.
Seaton. Sea Town. I sound the words out silently in my
head. Picturing this strange place. This palace. And I feel
that feeling again, that thrill. Because I know I should be
pale and grieving for this lost dead woman. But the thing is:
I have never met her. I kind of knew she existed. I mean,
obviously my mum had to have a mother, and a father,
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
13
though hes long gone. She had a brother, too: Will. But he
died. And I came. And Mum left and now she wont talk
about it.
So instead of crying, I laugh. Because its funny. Its
fairy tale funny. Because I live in this two-and-a-bit-bed-
room at in Peckham with no carpet and a boiler that only
works when it feels like it, and all along I have a house,
a castle by the sea. Im not the Little Match Girl, Im
Cinderella.
But then I hear the front door bang against the wall
and Finns voice one long stream of Gogos and Jedis and
Did you see that?s, and I remember who I am. Im not
Cinderella. Or Sleeping Beauty. Im Billie. And Mums
mother has died and she doesnt even know, and Im scared
to tell her because every time Ive mentioned her before,
just casual, she has ignored me or yelled at me, or, worse,
taken it out silently on herself. So I stuff the key and the
letter back in the envelope and push them down the back
of the sofa cushion. And they stay there for three whole
days.
I thought about not telling Mum at all. I mean, Im sixteen.
I could just go and live there on my own. Live this incred-
ible enchanted life in my castle by the sea. Thats what
Cass said anyway. Or, better, I could sell it and buy some-
where up West. So we could go to Chinawhites instead of
Chicagos. But as she sat on the end of my bed, in her St
Tropez tan, I knew every nod, every yeah was a lie.
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
14
I knew Id tell in the end. Had to. Because my mums
not like Casss, who doesnt know Cass lost her virginity
when she was thirteen. That it was to Leon Drakes and
she wasnt in love or anything like it. That she got pregnant
and paid for an abortion with the money her dad sends
her every month. The money she still spends on dope and
drink and the slots at Magic City.
And even the stuff Casss mum does know she doesnt
really register. Because if she did, she wouldnt let Cass do
half of what she does.
But my mums different. My mum you tell stuff to. And
this was big stuff. Family stuff. And the longer I left it, the
worse it got. Because the key was like the tell-tale heart in
that story we did for GCSE. This guy buries the heart of a
murdered man under the oorboards, only hes sure he can
still hear it beating, this thump thump thump, and it slowly
drives him mad.
And maybe its just my own heart, but I swear I can
hear that key beating its presence, pulsing it out like heat.
Like a heart. I look at Finn and Mum to see if they can
hear it too. And even though Finn just carries on laughing
at the cartoons and Mum icks another page in a maga-
zine, I know it is only a matter of time.
By Tuesday I cant stand it any longer. Ill be back at school
tomorrow and I dont want to leave Mum alone in the
house with it. Dont know what shell do if she nds it. As
it is, I hide the big knife in the kitchen. Just in case.
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
15
I dont say anything, just hand the envelope to her at
breakfast, with this look on my face like Im giving her my
school report and theres not even a C on it, let alone a B.
I feel Finn yank my sleeve, hear him demand to know what
it is, but I shrug him off because Im watching Mum, hid-
den under her shroud of dirty blonde, her knees inside the
black mohair of one of Lukas sweaters, bare feet poking
out. And I wait.
When she got a letter telling her that her father had
died, she said nothing. Just shrugged and dropped it in the
bin and went back to buttering toast. But this is different, I
think. This is her mother. She was inside her once. Part of
her. She has to lose it.
But she doesnt, just stretches her legs to the oor and
turns her head to me. And as she pushes her hair behind
one ear, I see she is smiling.
I should have told you before, I say. I mean, I meant
to. Its just I didnt know what you would
Its ne, she interrupts. Really.
We dont have to live there. Cass says I could sell it
we could sell it, I mean. Pay the back rent here. Or buy it
even. Or one of those big houses on the Grove near Cass
and
No, she says. Its a sign. Its serendipity. Well go.
Well move.
My stomach is alive again. Butteries battering against
the sides trying to get out.
Whats serendipity? asks Finn. And where are we going?
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
16
Fate, she replies. Good fate. And its taking us to the
seaside.
Like Margate? Will there be donkeys? Can we stay for
dinner?
Yes. She nods. Yes, theres donkeys. And yes, we can
stay. Not just for dinner though. For the night. For a thou-
sand and one nights. And her smile widens, as if shes just
realized what shes said.
Finn yelps with delight and ings himself onto Mum.
I watch as she basks in his adoration. Then, infected by his
eight-year-oldness, she wraps him round her and stands,
dancing him across the painted oor, Finn screaming as
she whirls to the tinny sound of the radio. But I dont
dance. Instead the butteries surge upwards and I have to
ght to push them down.
And Dad will come? Finn says, breathless. And we
can swim in the sea like sharks?
Yes, Mum says, her eyes closed, still dancing. But
I know she doesnt mean it. This is her escape. Her get-
out-of-jail-free card. We dont need anyone. We have us.
Thats what she always said, even before Finn came. Us is
what matters. We are all the family we need.
And part of me believes her. That its just us. And that
home will be wherever we want it to be. But then I think
about Cass. Who Ive known since for ever. Who bought
me my rst Beanie Baby. My rst tampons. My rst drink.
About Luka. Whos not my dad, but is the closest Ive ever
got. And as good as Id ever want.
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy
Its my key, I say in desperation.
Mum stops and lowers Finn down, one arm round him,
the other reaching out to stroke my face.
I know, she says. And its your decision.
Please, Billie, begs Finn. Please.
I look at him, his eyes wide with worry, scared Ill shat-
ter his sand-covered peppermint-rock-avoured dream.
Ill think about it, I say. I need to think about it.
But as Mum pulls us tight to her and carries us round,
the ceiling a kaleidoscope of broken light bulb and damp
and purple-felt-tip planets, I know Im losing the ght.
Text 2011 Joanna Nadin.
Front cover photographs 2014 Burin Esin / Getty Images; Focusphotographic / Alamy